Lillies

If I slice my heart open, you will see flours sprout and roots sewing the pieces back together gently and softly.

If I turn my back to you and offer up my spine as a fishing rod, you will see feathers nesting in between my bones.

If I open up my palm and reach out to yours, you can look down on my life line growing.

My scars are there, unhidden, unapologetic.

Look closely and see how they have healed, untainted by pain, unaffected by loss.

My skin reminds me of your touch and my heart beats singing your name.

But my skin is thick and remembers what it needs to grow brighter.

And my heart is fierce and only remembers how light is something that comes from within and not from people.

This is a story void of metaphors.

This is a tale with no symbolism.

This is a love letter.

This is a love letter to you.

You that you have brought my wilting heart back.

You have breathed the memories of what it feels like to be capable of generous love.

But love is fickle.

And when I say fickle and remember you, I stop myself.

I see how before we were the ghost of something undefined, we were the light of a burning candle in the midst of darkness.

But for now I cradle my heart, slowly, let it unfold, and tell it the story of how it overcame many crashing waves in order to enjoy the warm sun.

Linger•

Fickle is my touch when I come across your scent on my sheets… It takes me by surprise and pins me down, like a dream within a dream. A reality I can’t wake up from. I stumble upon particles of your memory drunk on my pillow, swaying between my neck and my thighs.
My throat collapses and words fail me as I try to lean on you.
Embrace me
Tumble upon me
Take me by the hand and tell me our secret is safe.
Tell me your ribcage is my shelter
Your breath my resistance
Your skin my token.

My sky is dark at dawn, my eyes are weary at dusk, and the time in between is tainted with the possibility of my thoughts falling apart from this cycle of doubt. My palms are sweaty, my head is heavy but mostly my bed is empty and my home is in a place that isn’t mine.

I miss you like the world gives a damn. But time is cruel and distance is delusional. And home is a place where memories wait to consume me.

home•

The ocean speaks to me in misty whispers, tells me secrets from across the atlantic… I dip my toes in the freezing water and reminisce about the times light fluctuated on your skin and extended to my spine.

There are mornings when I wake up and feel your love engulfing me with tenderness. And there are nights when I fall asleep with the memory of your fingertips resting against my hips.

My love, you are made of tiny particles of perfect moments that extend into infinity. You are stitched together with droplets of generous affection and lightness. You cradle my baffled heart with such ease, it makes its walls expand with unwavering happiness.

You are skin and bones and constant wonder and I wander in all the words you whisper to me. And when I listen closely, I can almost touch your lips with mine and draw breath from your love.

But love, most of all, you are home.

Stray hearts°

You look at me with kind eyes that stretch into the horizon, and whisper words made from the melody of your heartbeats. You look at me with feelings that flow, pouring flowers from your lips and onto mine. You stay. And I push. And you stay. And I can’t breathe. Because I look at you with the sorrow of the words you’ll never mean. I look at you with blame for all the pain you will impose on my survival. I see you on my sheets, staining them with your scent that will curl up under my spine and unearth my lungs.

I look like a fresh Lilly with dew on my petals, waking up on a Sunday morning, with life sprouting in my veins. I seem like a drowsy drizzle on the edge of your window, pulling you from your soft slumber to come play under the willow tree.

But fundamentally and down to the core, I am a drenched log, expanding from all the humidity that has caused my heart to weigh me down. I am a leap of faith that has seized to comprehend distance and dimensions. I am a sentence of jumbled up words allocating letters to the sounds they don’t belong to.

Love, I trust your eyes, your lashes clutching to them like they’re what make you thrive.

Love, I believe in the air that blows through your ribs, bringing you closer together.

I just don’t trust the time that it took for you to fall, the same time it will take you to put on your coat and walk away.

Contemporary art°

So smoke the flowers in my head into oblivion, desperately trying to turn memories into stories of pure fantasy. Tell me one more time that my bones grew thorns into your delicate skin. Draw on my back the scars of your heartbreak. Shed tears into my palms so I can turn them into a trophy and place it behind bars on a pedestal of sorts.

Darling, drain it all. Stain the sheets of our wilted petals. Fall apart on the pavement where we first realized it was all breaking into a million pieces.
And then dance.
Dance like the world owes you a lover. Dance like our love owes you empowerment. Move like your soul is made of mesmerizing ondulations.
Is that what you’re looking for?
A voice that resonates into your spine to convince you that you are ok. You are ok. You are ok.

Story of three.

I remember the time you put your tongue between my lips and told me how you’ve never kissed anyone with the taste of licorice in their mouths. You let your hands drop down my waist and said that I’m made of the bitter taste of Heaven. Your fingers traced my shoulder and my heart pounded like the fire of a million sun.

I saw in your eyes what I saw in all of my ones, the reasons why you and I could make atoms explode and recreate the universe.

I remember that morning I woke up, and your gentle embrace was holding me like a fetus that’s not ready to come out and face the world. And you told me that life could wait for us to just hide in between the folds of the waves crashing on our shore.

I felt like your body was the home I was desperately looking for, and your bones were the frame to the bed I wanted to sleep in forever.

I remember that day you took me by the hand and we ran across the fallen leaves. You broke my shell and told me that life is too short to do the same things twice. And you whispered to me that sometimes people are like memories even when they stain your sheets with wine.

I only understood that you were talking about me when I saw your slouching back running towards another fleeting flashback.

playlist:

Nym – Lesser Known Good

L’orange – The Good Shepherd

Degiheugi – Le Temps Est Bon (Remix)

 

 

Keep your eyes open

It’s all an illusion child.

The tire swing hanging from the oak tree, with your feet dangling in the air, brushing against the fragile dandelions.

The feelings that consume your insides while reading a book under the dim flashlight, tucked beneath your covers.

The mornings with snow falling from the white sky, that keep you in bed a little longer.

The smile from the stranger walking down the street with coffee in his hand.

The date you had at this cool pub and the coolness you felt having that martini and the awkwardness that took over in the car.

The curtains that you spent months picking to put in your rented apartment.

The colors of the sea driving back from a weekend away.

The Sundays that you savored, cuddled up in the arms you thought would never be different once more.

The after work drinks you had catching up, laughing out and smoking your cigarettes.

The stories. The secrets. The intimacy. The ache. The anxiety. The love. The hate. The love.

It’s all an illusion, child, of what you hoped your life would be. Of what it could have been. Of everything in between. You prayed for a novel, and all you got to be was a story. And stories end. But novels, novels they linger at the tip of your tongue, tugging at your taste buds, reminding you with every sense that you are forever changed.

It’s just an illusion. It’s all in your head.

For your eyes only do the words alternate and the memories transform. Just for you, does the illusion exist. It eats you up, chews you to oblivion then throws you on the pavement for the poor unfortunate souls to feast.

It is simply an illusion.